


After the O

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Conventions, First Time, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha's fake orgasms are inspiring. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrJOIIOrEog&feature=player_embedded">Inspired by this.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	After the O

Misha is still laughing when they go offstage. The audience's catcalls have never been something that Jensen feels overly comfortable with, but Misha lives off them, and you can't get much more catcall-worthy than faking an orgasm in front of a crowd of a thousand girls who would probably be more than happy to give either of them a real one. The attention is flattering to Jensen, he supposes, but a bit scary. Still, until today, Jensen's never really gotten where they come from.

But that moment when Misha went from reading the lines to really acting them -- his eyes sliding shut, black lashes fluttering against white-tan skin-- the way he'd gripped that chair...

Jensen felt a little bit like he was going to scream himself.

"God, that was too much," Misha wheezes. "I really am gonna have to strip if I'm gonna top that next time."

"Mm," Jensen mutters. ignoring the not-altogether-unpleasant flash of an image that races through his mind. Misha peeling off that black shirt -- button by button -- moaning the way he did, with that little knot between the eyebrows. Come to think of it, Jensen has always kind of liked the way Misha's eyebrows furrowed. He finds himself staring at that spot more often than not, when they're filming, when Misha's lost in his script, repeating his lines over and over in a low voice, and doesn't notice Jensen's staring...

"You're staring."

"Huh? Oh." Jensen looks away.

"And you've got a boner. Geez, next time I'll make sure not to make it so realistic."

Jensen rolls his eyes and whaps Misha on the arm, then turns to quickly adjust. "Don't flatter yourself."

"You mean it wasn't my spectacular performance that got you all hot and bothered?" Misha's pressing into his space now, and his body's radiant-hot, tempting. "I'm gonna cry."

"Do you mind?" Jensen pushes past him into the empty hallway. His mind is on a cold shower, maybe a beat-off, then a change of clothes before the closing ceremony.

"Not at all." Misha's following him, the little bastard. Following him.

"Mish," Jensen mumbles, pressing a hand to his forehead. "I'm not in the mood--"

Misha takes in a breath, right behind him, and then exhales, breath puffing against Jensen's ear. "I think you are."

He's not coy, not teasing. It's a simple declaration, and it's absolutely true.

Jensen whirls. He hears Misha inhale, a stuttering whoosh of breath, and moves to crush it, pressing his mouth to Misha's in a tight seal. Misha struggles briefly, then melts, and his hands come up to grip Jensen's wrists. Holding on tight like he held onto that chair, as he had thrust his hips forward, thrown his head back. Jensen gives a long, guttural moan into Misha's mouth just remembering it.

And then Misha crests upward against his body, for real and in the present, and Jensen goes entirely to flames with the reality of it. He breaks the kiss, gives an incoherent growl, and slides his hands around Misha's waist, holding the small of his back. His palms press in flat, urging Misha's hips against his. Fuck, Misha's hard too, harder with every minute and every thrust. Jensen's head tips forward, and Misha nips Jensen's ear and whispers, "wanted, Jensen, wanted so damn badly."

One crushing, rolling movement of their hips, up and through and together, and Jensen groans, helplessly, looking for words. The only ones he can find are "Key's in my back pocket."

And oh yes, that's what he wanted, Misha's hand sliding around to cup his ass, reach in there, fingers flexing and sliding out the keycard, then gripping slightly, squeezing before letting go. Jensen whispers something sacrilegious when Misha tears himself away. The whole front of him is cold without Misha's body right _there._

Their fingers intertwine loosely as they run down the hallway.

The card slides in and there's an endless instant before the light turns green that Jensen thinks he might not survive. Then the door swings open, and someone grabs someone, and they're kissing hard and wild and rattling the picture frames as they knock against the wall. Misha's mouth is hungry and his hands are incorrigible, clutching at Jensen's forearm, his hipbone. Jensen's mouth finds his neck, as sweaty as Jensen's is from all the lights and the motion of the convention, and it makes his skin strangely sweet. Jensen draws his tongue up beneath Misha's ear, and the sound he gets in response is a quavering moan a thousand times better than anything Jensen heard on stage.

"Bed?" Misha whispers, his hands curling under Jensen's belt.

Jensen glances at the clock. "No time," he says. "Shower."

There's nothing erotic in the mad strip of clothes. They're both used to costume changes, and when you're counting every second you don't waste time appreciating. But the appreciation comes in a blast of shower spray a moment later, when Misha steps in after Jensen and stops dead.

"What?" A moment of self-doubt.

Misha shakes his head, grinning widely. "I want to fuck the life out of you."

Jensen reaches for him, pulls him in by the nape of his neck, and the water plasters their hair to their skin and slides into their kiss. Misha's hand now clutches Jensen's bare ass, and there's possession in it, a sense of knowing. He'd said he'd wanted this, but with the squeeze of his fingers, the bold dive into the cleft (and oh God that feels perfect, that shouldn't feel so damn perfect), Jensen believes it.

He reaches for the bottle of shampoo on the ledge, misses wildly, his hand swiping forward and his knees buckling. Misha grabs him, grabs it, and spins Jensen around to face the spray. All in one fluid movement, and Jensen can't breathe with it. How does Misha get to be so smooth, when Jensen's whole body has gone clumsy and useless with unresolved heat.

Except for Misha's shaking, just a bit. And his erection is hot and insistent against the small of Jensen's back, and Misha's groan in his ear is broken.

"Fuck," he whispers, "fuck, Jensen, I'm--" His head bows forward, forehead touching Jensen's shoulder, and he throws his arms around Jensen's waist. Just for a moment, he's still but for the minute trembling of his limbs.

Jensen plucks the bottle out of his hands, pours a dollop of shampoo, and reaches up to work it in to Misha's hair, and his own. Suds start to form, soap bubbles sliding down Jensen's chest and stomach, catching in the soft tuft of hair between his legs. Misha's hands have withdrawn, and now they're working their way up to Jensen's hair, digging in there and raking nails against his scalp. His head tilts to the side and he fastens his mouth to Jensen's neck, sucking almost hard enough to leave a mark. Jensen's skin prickles with the force of it.

And then shampoo-slick hands dive downward, too fast for Jensen to follow. He registers fingertips skimming against his stomach, then a lurch of intense heat and the sound of his own voice echoing against the tile. The echo fades before he thinks to look down, and when he sees long fingers circling his cock, one hand gently pumping and the other teasing with gentle fingertips against the head, he thinks he'll pass out.

Misha's thrusting up against him, cock riding hard against his backside, and Jensen wishes they had time for more, wishes Misha had time to open him up. A flood of dirty images washes through his mind, and he opens his mouth, breathes in steamy air, and groans loud.

"Good?" Misha murmurs against his shoulder, dotting a kiss there as punctuation.

Jensen lets loose. "So good, so fucking good, Misha, God, I want--" He loses his breath, swallows shower water, starts again. "Wanted to ride you in that chair, wanted to be the one making you moan."

Misha curses and rolls his hips up against Jensen violently.

"You were," he says.

Jensen's coming the minute the words hit his ear, thrusting desperately into Misha's hand, his hips bucking forward so hard he almost loses balance again. His palms slam against the shower wall and he cries out, his voice breaking, watching his cock spasm within the shell of Misha's fingertips. He's amazed, red-hot, breathless.

And then with a swell of determined energy he spins, pushes Misha back and pins him against the wall, taking hold of him and stroking firmly. He quells Misha's first moan with a kiss, tongue sweeping into his mouth. Misha's hands lie flat and useless, gripping the shower wall looking for traction that isn't there, and his hips stutter forward into the brutal rhythm of Jensen's strokes. For maybe the first time since they were on stage, Jensen gives a soft laugh, a noise of triumph.

Misha shatters, his balls tighten and he comes with a whimper. His cock pulses helplessly in Jensen's hand, his knees buckle, and Jensen braces him tight against the wall, lifts come-covered hand to buoy him up. Misha's hands find Jensen's shoulders and cling tight as he shudders through his orgasm. When it's done, Misha's plastered against Jensen, head on his shoulder again, body wracked with small trembles.

It takes him a minute to lift his head and meet Jensen's eyes. Jensen's heart is pounding in his ears, but he's smiling, and Misha's eyes widen at the sight.

"Wow," Jensen says.

Misha nods. "Well said."

Jensen leans in and kisses him. Slow, soft, pink lips parting as Jensen's tongue traces them lazily.

"Jensen?" Not Misha's lazy voice, but a sharp, piercing shout from outside the room, followed by staccato raps on the door.

"Closing ceremonies," Misha says.

Jensen groans and rolls his eyes.

They hurry out of the shower, get dressed. Jensen manages to pull a new shirt from his suitcase. Misha might be wearing one of Jensen's socks. The fans will notice upon fanatical inspection of the photographs, but that's what fans do. Jensen totally gets where they come from.  



End file.
